


The White Antelope

by Gryff



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: F/M, Father-Daughter Relationship, Original Character(s), Original Player Characters, Quests, Search for Father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2017-06-05
Packaged: 2018-11-09 06:56:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11099253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gryff/pseuds/Gryff
Summary: Ghorbash finds a strange woman outside Dushnikh Yal.





	1. Dushnikh Yal

**Author's Note:**

> Reema, while being a played character of mine, is not Dovahkiin. For this little universe, there is one Dovahkiin with a handful of my played characters running about, having used Dovahkiin powers in-game, but not in the storylines to follow.

Ghorbash the Iron Hand woke early, just as the sun rose over the Druadach Mountains. He stretched, got dressed, and shoved the remnants of last night’s meal in his mouth before hefting his axe to begin his daily training. It was a monotonous habit he had slipped into once he returned home from his travels, a far cry from the daily unpredictability of the Legion and wandering on the roads. To say he was content with this predictable life was only half true - the Orsimer longed to return to the roads and adventure once more, before his life had ended. 

As he left the longhouse, Ghorbash eyed the small stable the stronghold had where they kept a few horses that they owned. A familiar thought wiggled into his head: he could simply jump atop one of the horse’s backs, ride off, and never come back, and not be missed. The ranger sighed; he had already left once, and had had the rare chance of being allowed back into the tribe by his brother. Such a chance would not occur again if he left once more.

The Orc left such thoughts at the threshold of the longhouse. Today, he had a job to do: train himself and a few of the others so that the tribe would remain strong. He grunted, unsheathing his axe. He would do just that for the thousandth time in a row - if it were not for the sound of a sabre cat’s yowl.

Without fully knowing the situation, the Iron Hand ran towards the sound, out the main gate of the stronghold, and felt a guttural war cry bubble in his chest, but paused when he took the chance to observe the scene. The sabre cat’s dead body was draped over a dead horse, blood everywhere. Warily, Ghorbash tightened his grip on his axe, wondering who might have killed the predator. He walked forward, ready to meet whoever was strong enough to kill a sabre cat on their own, hoping it was not Forsworn for the sake of the tribe. The Orc peeked over the bodies, and grunted softly. She was not Forsworn, but nonetheless a woman laid bleeding on the ground not too far from the sabre cat. So this was the valiant slayer.

This particular woman had skin black as sin, glistening with sweat and blood. A Redguard. He had seen many of them in the Legion, but this one was unique, for she had naturally white hair - cropped short like a man’s - and white irises, that was ringed with black. Those pale, unsettling eyes locked with his and narrowed warily like a cat’s. Her hands, covered in blood and trembling, gripped the hilts of twin scimitars, and raised them threateningly. She did not spit out a threat, but her eyes did all of the talking.  _ Take one more step, and I’ll kill you. _

Ghorbash chortled softly. “You seem to be in no place to do any harm to me,” She seemed more Orc than any human he had ever met. A rare encounter, to meet someone so less and yet so equal.

The white-eyed woman’s brow furrowed, her gaze unbreaking even as he saw more blood pouring out of her from a wound on her side. “Leave me be,” She growled in a near whisper. 

Ghorbash walked closer. “There is an orc stronghold not too far from here. I could take you there, so you could be he-” He jumped back as the blades slashed in two arcs, aiming at his chest. 

“Leave me,” The woman’s voice was softer now, and Ghorbash could see in her eyes that unconsciousness was coming soon. “Leave…” The woman slumped over, the blades dropping out of her hands. 

He bent down and took the woman in his arms, laying her scimitars across her stomach and grabbing what he identified as her things. Then with one last look around the small pass, he returned back to the stronghold, with a guest.

 

Reema was her name.

It was one of the few things he learned about her. She was a woman of few words, and when she did speak, her voice was monotonous and she spoke bluntly to everyone, even his brother, Chief Burguk. Murbul begrudgingly healed her, if only at her son’s insistence. The feelings between the healer and the patient were mutual, however; Reema did not seem to want to be healed, nor did she want to lay on one of the spare beds in the back of the Longhouse all day. 

“I can do it myself,” she said to him and Murbul constantly. She knew Restoration magic, from the books in her bag, or at least was attempting to learn the spells. It struck Ghorbash as odd, for Redguards were wary of any kinds of magic, even Destruction and Restoration.

“You’ve got Witbane and possibly Brain Rot,” Murbul reminded her roughly, rubbing a healing potion on Reema’s wounds. “You shouldn’t be casting spells of any kind until I’ve cured you,” Ghorbash stood on the sidelines, ever watching her for signs of deterioration or worsening sickness. Murbul somewhat approved of her son’s constant watch of the sick Redguard, but whenever he walked out of the bedroom or outside of the Longhouse, he was met with disgust and disdain in the eyes of his tribe. How dare he waste his time, watching over some outsider! He made his escapades outdoors brief, though he challenged those who looked at him with scorn, as fit the orc way.

“I’ve brought food,” He walked back to Reema’s guest room in with two bowls of venison soup and a loaf of bread. He placed the meal on the nightstand along with a couple bottles of nord mead. Reema’s unnatural white eyes watched him, half-lidded and wary as always. Ghorbash met her gaze, then grunted out a laugh. “You’re waiting for me to eat first?” Reema nodded. He laughed again, tearing off half of the loaf and dipping it into his bowl, then eating the soup-soaked loaf. When the Redguard was content that Ghorbash was not sick in any way, she pulled herself up and mimicked his action, taking small, meticulous bites. They ate in silence for quite sometime before Reema finally spoke.

“What do you do around here,” She said, her voice flat as the deserts he presumed she came from.

“Me? I'm Chief Burguk's brother,” He took a swig of the mead. “I came back not too long ago after serving many years in the Legion. By then, Burguk had already become chief, and he welcomed me home as family, not a rival as is tradition.” Reema responded with a flat and short ‘hm’, taking another bite. “What brings a Redguard like you to Skyrim?” Many of the Redguards that came here during the war were often sellswords, some even joining the Legion here. In the north by the ports, they were pirates or buccaneers. A rare few were merchants, and even rarer were those that wanted to live here, of all places. 

Reema did not respond at first, quietly looking off into the distance. “I am looking for my father.” 

Ghorbash paused. Outsiders had closer ties to their fathers than orcs did, and he found that he could not relate, or understand why she would waste her time coming here to Skyrim just to look for one man. “May I ask why?”

Her white gaze found his own, the eyes narrowed. “A lot of shit happened in my life because of him leaving. I want to ask him why he did so, maybe even kill him if I get the chance,” Reema finished her loaf and placed the rest of the stew on the nightstand. “The stew was bland. I could barely taste the potatoes and leeks, and I wouldn’t have even know there was salt in it. It tasted like venison in hot water,” She wiped her mouth distastefully. “That bread was stale. For a prosperous Orc Stronghold, you have lackluster food.”

The Orc Ranger was stunned, but attempted to cough out a laugh, tentatively wondering if she had meant it as a joke. “I made the stew and bread.” 

Reema raised an ivory eyebrow. “You have work to do,” She laid back down and closed her eyes, leaving Ghorbash to clean up, bemused at her culinary critique. 

 

“That black woman of yours needs to go, brother.” 

Ghorbash looked up from the small loaf of bread in his hand, down the long table to where the speaker, his brother sat, surrounded by his wives Gharol, Arob, and Shel, as usual at dinner time. The three wives looked up towards him expectantly, most likely wondering how Ghorbash would respond to his brother, his chief. Would he back down, or would a fight ensue? Ghorbash merely grunted, shrugging at their gaze.

“And why is that, brother?” He took a bite of the bread, a neutral expression on his face; he did not want to fight his brother today, and not over her. Reema had been in the Stronghold for nearly a week now, and Burguk had made his feelings on her presence known ever since the start. It was about time that he said it out loud, but Ghorbash felt the fight over her would be pointless at best.

Burguk’s brow furrowed, and his lips came up, revealing his teeth in a sneer. “She has lain in that bed long enough. And you have done nothing but loom over her like a mother hen, not doing your job.” His grip tightened noticeably on his knife. His forge-wife Gharol’s gaze quickly shifted to the utensil as the metal bent underneath his grip; Umurn’s steel needed work. “I will not tolerate laziness here, especially not in my own brother!”

Ghorbash snorted, meeting his brother’s eyes finally, still maintaining his neutrality in his voice. “I have spent three hours sparring with your sons today, Chief. I would not call that laziness.”

“Horseshit!” Burguk stabbed a hunk of goat meat, bringing the piece to his mouth and tearing a piece off, not bothering to close his mouth and prevent the stray strips of meat and grease from spewing everywhere. “Ever since you brought in that outsider, you’ve only left her side to eat and piss. That woman is a waste of space and resources.”

Ghorbash thought back to Reema, who was only a room away, asleep in the farthest corner of the longhouse. “She has the right to come into the stronghold; she was injured right outside of our gate.” 

“Have you gone soft, Ghorbash?” Arob, the hunts-wife sneered from Burguk’s side. “All that time in the Legion has made you forget what it means to be in a stronghold.” The Iron Hand never fully regained the proper respect from the rest of the tribe when he returned back from his service in the Imperial Legion. Burguk’s sons didn’t even acknowledge him as a threat, regardless if he had a desire to become chief, Burguk’s wives insulted him in public. The miners ignored him for the most part, though his elder brother Oglub often urged him to take control. “Winter is coming, and the tribe doesn’t have the time to waste supplies on an outlander like her, even if we do “accept” her.” 

A gravely voice tumbled like rocks down the mountain from a corner. Ghorbash didn’t have to turn his head to see who it was; the voice was unmistakable. “Arob is right, my son.” Murbul grunted. “I make potions for the tribe and the tribe only. I have only enough to spare for us. The black woman has already taken up much of my spare store.” She sniffed disdainfully in the direction of Reema’s cot. 

“She is healed enough. And if she’s as strong as you claim, she’ll be able to leave in the morning.” Burguk said, and his word was final. 

Ghorbash was forced to comply. “As you wish, Chief.” 

 

He was surprised to find that she was already getting packed when he went to tell her. Her Alik’r hood was wrapped around her snow-white hair, steel boots and bracers over her feet and hands. Her scimitars were sheathed on both sides, and Reema busied herself with her bag, stuffing in familiar looking items that he had noticed were gone from their usual place. 

“I know they want me gone,” She didn’t look up from her bag, wrapping up a haunch of meat. “I’m not deaf.” Finished with the last of her packing, the Redguard rose swiftly, tossing the bag over her back. She began to walk away, but Ghorbash stepped in her way. Reema’s free hand went to one of her scimitars, those white eyes narrowed. 

“Take me with you.” He grunted. Reema’s eyes widened slightly, but quickly narrowed again.

“Why should I?”

A good question. Ghorbash thought for a moment before responding, a pause that bothered Reema immensely from the look on her face. “You are still weak. The Reach is not a place for a wounded woman to roam by herself, especially with winter coming,” Reema looked offended, but she kept listening to his testimonial. “I have no true place in this tribe, not anymore at least, ever since I came back from the Legion,” He admitted. “All I do is swing my axe at a straw dummy. I barely help with hunts and my brother’s sons no longer need my training,” Ghorbash met her gaze, eyes gleaming as he searched Reema’s hard gaze for some kind of softness. He found none, but kept trying to persuade her anyway. “I still long to travel the open roads. You understand that restlessness, don’t you? Let me go with you.”

Another pause. From the other side of the longhouse, Ghorbash could hear the snores of his tribe and for the second time in his life, felt truly annoyed by them. This was no longer his place; he longed for the openness of the wilds, not the close quarters of the longhouse. His focus returned to Reema, who was thoughtfully silence, before her mouth opened once again.

“Fine,” she said, blunt as ever, but her words spoke volumes. Grunting in approval (and silently cheering), Ghorbash turned towards his bed.

“Let me gather my belongings, first.”

“Hurry up, I’m not going to wait all day.” With that, Ghorbash walked quickly to his bed, eager to leave the oppressiveness of the tribe that had not fully accepted him yet, and go on a new adventure, with a new, strange woman. 


	2. Deadman's Drink

The gods loved their ironies, cruel or otherwise, and the fact that the Dark Brotherhood’s sanctuary was located near the largest cemeteries in Skyrim had to be one of them. Falkreath was a town surrounded by death, seen and unseen, and it was a little joke of the gods that made Nazir smile as he went into town, the sun setting behind the mountains.  


Business had never been better; tensions that had long been tempered with peace were now inflamed with war. Family feuds alighted as relatives chose opposing sides, businessmen going to extreme lengths to control the desperate markets, generals looking for easy ways to take a castle or fort...ah! the spoils of war!  


But so much business tired a man. He travelled from Solitude to Windhelm chasing rumors, of the Black Sacrament, of potential initiates, of the war in general. Skyrim was a cold and bleak land, and there were times when he longed for Hammerfell, of the Alik’r Desert, but quickly remembered that he would not be returning to those sands in a very long time, if ever. As of right now, the Redguard simply wanted the comforts of the Dead Man’s Drink Inn, his last stop in Skyrim before he returned home to his family. The man would simply collect information from the innkeep, stay the night, and leave in the morning as he always did; Falkreath did not get too many visitors.  


The wooden door creaked and Nazir stepped into the little inn, already basking in the enclosed warmth it firmly held. Near the fire, Delacourt, the Breton bard, lazily strummed his lute, a song humming through his chest. His eyes flickered up to the entering Redguard, his head bobbing in greeting with a little smile. Nazir returned the gesture, hiding the disgusted shudder that rippled through his body, but his eyes were already searching the inn for any other signs of life, quick to ignore the minstrel. Many were residents of Falkreath; Bolund and Solaf, the latter with Tekla on his arm, Thadgeir attempting to quell Dengeir’s talks of conspiracy, the Arkay priest Runil and his assistant, the gravekeeper Kust enjoying a well-deserved meal. He was not surprised to notice Mathies’ absence; he expected he would not see the mourning father for quite some time.  


Nazir dazzled a smile at Valga, the innkeep, sliding her a small pile of coins. She smirked, counting the coins as she greeted him. “The usual, Sorni?”  


He knew better than to use his real name, for as much of a nice woman Valga was, she was still a liability, especially so close to home. “Of course,” He smiled back.  


“You know, you weren’t the first to order Northpoint Poutine tonight. Really odd that they knew the dish, but given all of the newcomers flooding in, I’m not too surprised anymore,” Valga turned to stoke the fire, placing a pot of oil on a frame on top the rising embers.  


“Oh?” Nazir raised an eyebrow. The first time he had requested the dish, Valga had laughed in his face. To go from venison stews and steaming loaves of bread to a potato dish from Highrock had been surprising to the Imperial, but she had complied. Now she kept all the ingredients on hand for her best tipping customer. “Were they a Breton?”  


“She was a Redguard like you! Weird eyes and hair. She’s rooming here with her Orc companion,” She dropped the sliced potatoes into the oil, the sizzle peaking the attention of the other customers.  


Nazir tapped the side of the table with a stack of gold coins, the noise enough to prompt Valga to expound more. “Think the orc called her Reema. The orc was an Imperial veteran; I'd recognize that regimented attitude anywhere,”  


Another clink as Nazir added more to the stack. “They’re renting the double bed for two days. They should be leaving the morning after next,” She pulled the potatoes from their bubbling oil bath and immediately smothered them in beef gravy and goat cheese, the latter melting on contact, then sprinkled on bits of clam and fish. Nazir placed the stack of coins on the counter, smoothly retrieving a fork. “You’re my best customer, you know,” She smirked, sliding the coins into her pocket. The Redguard nodded in return, a wry smile mirroring her own, stealing away to his favorite corner. Poutine was a common dish in Highrock, and had made its way to northern and western Hammerfell, but Northpoint Poutine was a special dish on its own, a fishy variety native to the northern Breton city of Northpoint. How the average Redguard knew of Northpoint Poutine specifically was suspicious, especially the lot pouring into Skyrim; they were either pure-blooded Alik’r or Cyrodiil-born soldiers.  


He contented himself to eating his poutine, keeping a wary eye on the double-bed room for any sign of movement. The central fire began to burn out, and as midnight creeped closer, the inhabitants slipped out (or in some of their cases, stumbled out) the entrance of the Inn as the night grew dark. Soon, even the bard had trudged back to bed, and it was only him, the barmaid, and Valga. "I'm heading in," She announced to Nazir, wearily rubbing at her eyes. The barmaid Floki mirrored her movements, yawning loudly. "You staying up a bit longer, Sorni?"  


"No," He rose, bowl in hand, trotting back to the innkeeper and plopping the wooden creation near her. "I shall see you in the morning,"

* * *

He had intended to leave at first light, but the intrigue of another Redguard who knew of the Northern Breton dish drew him to linger for a few moments more. As far as he knew, Astrid had not yet been aware of his presence in Falkreath Hold. He could bandy his time here for a few more minutes of the day.  


It was a strange reason to linger, anyway. Surely, this was some coincidence. Perhaps they were from Northpoint themselves, or born in Highrock. Or perhaps that had tried it on a whim once and fallen in love with this dish as he did. But the description of the Redguard in question - strange hair and eyes - was another center of gravity that he could not escape.  


His morning fare was not as heavy as the dish from last night; eggs, cheese and bread was all he had, the poultry and livestock fare wrapped tightly in the warm loaf, as he liked it. Had he been in the Sanctuary, he might have embellished it just a bit more with spices and vegetables, but the Poutine from last night still weighed heavily in his stomach.  


He watched out of the corner of his eye as a door opened in the far left side of the tavern; the double-bed room. True to Valga's word, there was an orc. A large male, bald, with horns on his heavily ridged brow. It seemed that he and his companion were set on leaving as soon as possible, as the orc was already wrapped in his steel armor. He hailed the innkeeper, ordering two plates of and a few more necessities. Nazir watched the man intently, scanning him. As an Imperial vet, it was a certainty that he had travelled through the Empire, and had been exposed to the flavors of every province still under Imperial rule. Perhaps it was he who had recommended the dish to his Redguard companion instead.  


But, as the Redguard woman slid silently from the room, Nazir realized that he had been second guessing himself time and time again. There was a good reason why he lingered for so long. It was not just curiosity, or suspicion, or any of the rationalizations he had given himself prior. Now, as he saw the woman, he knew all of that was just bullshit. He had stayed because he thought he knew who this woman was.  


"Reema," The orc had said to his companion, smiling warmly at the still silent woman. "Anything else you want?"  
The Redguard woman did indeed have strange hair and eyes; her hair was as pale as ivory, her irises only distinguished from her sclera by a heavy black stroke. The rest of her skin was a dark ruddy tone that matched Nazir's own.  


Matched Nazir's own.  


Reema. He knew that name, or at least he recognized it. It meant 'white antelope', a fitting name to both the color of her hair and eyes, and the limber shape of her body. But there was more to the name than the translation. It was of someone he once knew, someone he once thought to no longer be a part of his life, cast away.  


"Reema," He murmured to himself, eyes fixed intently on the Redguard with hair and eyes of snow. "Shit."  


"We're getting close, Ghorbash, I don't have time to wait," The woman blankly intoned, slinging a bag over her shoulder. She was already heading to the door.  


"Alright, alright," He chuckled. "Guess we're taking this on the road then," He stuffed the pile of food into a backpack of his own, wrapping the steaming breakfast in a cloth. He placed a small stack of coins on the table before he followed after her, the door slamming shut behind them.  


Nazir weighed his options carefully. If this woman was who he thought she was, then openly barging outside and accusing her would probably be one of the worst decisions in his life. But if she wasn't, she was not worth a second thought. He finally decided that he had much more important matters that chasing his past The man rose, walking to return his plate to Valga, his own travelling pack swung into place behind his back. He wiped at his beard, his other hand extending the plate to Valga. "Thanks for the meal. I shall see you again soon, yes?"  


The innkeeper grinned. "I'm always here." With that he slipped out the inn's doors.


End file.
